Pace and Patience

One day in Kenya the monkeys were particularly difficult to find.  The group that I studied was both the largest and the most habituated (meaning comfortable with human researchers) of all our study groups, which says a lot.  Basically, I was spoiled.  A reminder of this may have been just what I needed.

I was working with the only other American at the site then (Corey) for the day, and we split up to scour the forests trying to find even just one monkey to complete a follow on (on a good day I could get as many as ten 20-minute follows on females in the group).  It was incredibly dry for that time of year, the kind of Africa-dry where all of the rusty red dirt seems to float up from the ground like steam off of a lake in the morning and just fill every cell in your body.  Every time I blew my nose red-brown snot would come out and my hair took on a whole new tint and texture, reminding me just how low the rain tanks were becoming.  The missing monkeys were the final blow, and in typical fashion, my temper welled.  Not realizing Corey was just one trail over, I started to mutter cuss words under my breath and throw a miniature researcher-tantrum in the middle of the forest.  Not for the last time in my research future, someone had to give me a speech on patience and acceptance.

Intense focus and drive can get you pretty far in field research, athletics, and academia.  When unchecked, however, it can drive you to insanity.  I’ve been stuck in Kampala for three days now.  From the moment I tossed a purple clipboard into my pack and counted the sterile sample tubes back in Indiana, I have had one thing on my mind: the Semliki chimpanzees.  I told myself again and again that I would have many annoying things to take care of in Kampala, mostly meeting directors of various government agencies to get research permission and collecting some supplies that could not be carried on the plane (e.g. ethanol alcohol for preserving genetic samples).  In theory I should remember that this would be even more complicated then I ever planned for, but my personality is what it is, and when I was told today that I would not be leaving for my beloved forest tomorrow, but rather five days from now, I nearly lost it.  Okay, I kind of did, solely internally though.

You see, in Africa, timing is a completely different concept.  When you agree to meet on a Monday, that often means Wednesday.  If you tell someone to have lunch with you in the early afternoon, you may end up meeting for dinner.  No one seems to mind, and you are definitely not expected to take offense.  T.I.A. (This is Africa), and you adjust to Africa time if you expect to survive.  Lesson one that I am still struggling to learn after six months in Africa three years ago.

Kampala is a bustling metropolis.  The streets are packed with dilapidated taxi cars and land rovers trying to pass matatu vans as they slowly move through the streets with men hanging out the side yelling destinations and trying to entice passengers.  Passengers in the taxis bake in the stale dry season heat with the windows up to avoid that ever-infamous red-brown airborne earth and the clouds of black smog being emitted from the occasional large truck.  All the while tiny “boda-boda” motorcycle taxis zip in and out and around all of these stationary vehicles going every which way and direction on the street that they wish like coyotes moving through a herd of cattle.  The sidewalks are so packed with pedestrians that I am constantly being jostled and elbowed or even gently moved aside by a hand.  I am constantly forced to maneuver around all of these people walking every which way, while trying not to step on the countless street venders with their piles of pens and candies strewn out on old clothes in the middle of the sidewalks, usually with two or three children and babies at their side.  Teens recruited by missionaries stalk me along the street, surely this Mzungu has plenty of money to hand us, they must think the second they see a blonde head bobbing from a block away.  Boda-boda and taxi drivers litter the street-sides trying to grab me as I pass, “taxi? Boda?”  I almost no longer hear them already.

All of this commotion leaves me to wonder, if everyone is always out of their office, then why are all of these people in such a hurry?!  Then tonight, as I walked back from my session of dinner/internet it occurred to me, I’m the only one pushing through these crowds at three times their speed.  The traffic is at a stand still.  The people are stopping to browse the street vendors and talk with friends.  The cafes and the markets are packed tightly with locals all day long.  This really is Africa, and everyone really is slowing down.

I was reminded once again today (and I’m sure I will be in the future), that I need to accept where I am.  That means accepting more than just the lack of pampering and refinement to my appearance, the fact that flushing toilets (or even toilets at all) are often not available, and I had my last Jiffy Treat sundae of the summer last week.  I’ve already accepted all of that.  It also means accepting that time moves slower here.  Tasks take longer to complete, and breaks are not an option, but a forced part of each day.  I don’t really know if that is better or worse.  The streets are still crowded, and I’m still stuck in a city when I’d rather be in the forest, but how much of my life do I spend looking three steps ahead of me?  I’m sure if you know me you can jump on that answer faster than I can, and the truth is, those chimpanzees will not go extinct before next Wednesday.  So I guess it is time to throw in my speed demon towel for a bit.  Tomorrow, I’m sleeping in and going shopping.